AN EVENING OUT WITH DIANA

By JAMES R. GAINES

There is a picture in my library that reminds me of when I met her. As the editor of PEOPLE magazine, I was charged with covering every move she made, and one night some years ago, because the magazine had made a substantial contribution to whatever charity it was, I was Princess Diana's "escort" to a benefit performance of Falstaff by the Welsh National Opera. When I first met her that night, I thought I'd cut the ice with a little self-deprecating humor along the lines of how it was I who had perpetrated such insanely thorough coverage of her in America. So as I shook her hand I said, "Yes, I admit it, I'm responsible." She looked at me strangely, not understanding, then said, "I'm so very happy you are."

Later I explained what I'd meant, and she explained what she'd meant. She talked about the siege of the press, the terrors of being so public, especially in so small a place as England. We talked a fair amount, neither of us being particular fans of this opera. I don't remember much of what was said, though I do remember she asked lots of questions about my daughter--What did she like to do? How did she like school? What were her favorite things? She didn't talk about her own children, but I could tell from her questions that she missed them.

I was at her left. At her right was an enormously rich, well-known man who had apparently also made a major contribution to this particular cause. He told her of the wonderful swimming pool he had at his place in Paris, and wouldn't she like to come swim sometime? At that she turned to me, smiled and made an expression that said, "Do you believe this guy? Do you see what I go through?"

I had not expected her to be as lovely as her pictures, or so tall. Contrary to the storied upbringing of British aristocracy, she fidgeted constantly, pulling at various parts of her white sequined dress as a child might. At a dinner following the opera, she walked, alone, down a huge winding staircase without ever looking at her feet, so we knew she was a princess. But at dinner she ate like your sister, tearing into her meal with a kind of wanton delight, turning aside her lady-in-waiting's insistence that it was time to be leaving with the flat observation that dessert hadn't come yet. There are those who will see in this scene the evidence of an emergent eating disorder. I saw it as evidence of the loveliness of being 27 and the bride of a future King, and I still do, and I always will.

James R. Gaines is a former managing editor of PEOPLE, LIFE and TIME and a former corporate editor of Time Inc.